


Catch The Warmth Of Your Soul

by The_Wavesinger



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F, Fade to Black, Fluff and Angst, Fourth Age, Requited Unrequited Love, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 06:21:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7348639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wavesinger/pseuds/The_Wavesinger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An evening with Arwen and Éowyn, and wine and confessions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catch The Warmth Of Your Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amyfortuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/gifts).



> Title paraphrased from Browning's _Two In The Campagna_. Also, I imagine that Aragorn and Arwen had an open relationship :D.
> 
> I had a lot of fun writing this, and I hope you enjoy it, too!

A fire crackling on a hearth in the sitting-room adjoining the Queen's bedroom, and two women, one golden-haired and one darker, sitting close together in front of it, too distant for lovers, but close enough for friends; this, Arwen speculates, is what a stranger would see.

_I wish,_ she thinks pensively, _I wish—_

But she closes her eyes against the thought. There is nothing saying the words, even in her head, will achieve; it is a fool's hope, and not even that.

“Arwen,” Éowyn says, and Arwen starts. “Arwen, you are drifting. What are you thinking of?”

“Nothing,” Arwen laughs. “Nothing but taxes and farming, that is.” The lie slips smoothly from her mouth, easier for the fact that, on any other occasion, for any other person, it would be true.

Éowyn shakes her head, her golden hair glinting in the firelight. “I love that you are dedicated ruler, Arwen, but this is a supposed be a quiet evening, _away_ from the stresses of government.”

_I love. I love you._ The words easily slip into each other, in her mind, and Arwen realizes, vaguely, that the alcohol she has imbibed has left her tipsy.

The problem with mortality is that you do not have an eternity to live. And maybe those who are born mortal are used to a life of rushing from one point to another, but for Arwen, the emotions which come with with mortality and are foreign, and the suddenness of her infatuation is _disconcerting_ , to say the least.

She shakes off the thoughts—too maudlin. “I was wondering...Lothíriel is arriving next week, and perhaps you could prolong your stay until then?”

“Oh yes!” Éowyn says quickly, her eyes bright. “I would enjoy that very much. Faramir can manage without me for another week or so, I think. I shall write to him and sort it out.”

Arwen laughs ('That is wonderful!') and reaches for the wine. Éowyn moves at the same time as she does, and their hands collide, knocking the bottle over. Slowly, it rolls off the low wooden table and shatters, spreading a puddle of liquid over the floor as Arwen and Éowyn watch in horrified silence.

“I am sorry—”

“I apologize—”

“I should not have—”

“It was completely my fault—”

They stop, look at each other. And Arwen, suddenly, finds herself holding back giggles. The giggles turn into full-blown laughter, and soon the two of them are doubled over, clutching their sides. _Of all the things to find funny_ , Arwen thinks, but somehow, the phrase sends her into convulsions again.

At length, they manage to quiet themselves (although she would have crystallized that moment in time, if she could), and Arwen sighs. “Well, that was a waste of a good bottle of wine.”

“Indeed it was,” Éowyn agrees. Her voice is solemn, but the twitch of her lips gives her away, and Arwen fights the desire to burst into laughter again. It is only due centuries of self-control that she masters herself enough to reply, “And do not forget, the blame is wholly on _you_.”

Éowyn does not dignify that with a reply.

“Clumsy of you,” Arwen continues, in a mocking, sing-song tone. “If you want to seduce me, you need only ask—”

She stops. Oh. Oh _Valar_.

“—you need only ask,” she repeats. Éowyn will take it as a jest if she pretends it was one, will she not? “I may be the most beautiful Queen in Gondor, but you are not ugly—”

“Can I tell you something?” Éowyn interrupts.

And oh. Arwen falls silent as she continues, “Something I will likely regret? Something about you?”

Arwen probably should decline—they are friends, close friends, even, but not close enough to withstand _this_ , whatever it has become—but Arwen's curiosity gets the better of her. Besides, she has made a fool of herself once already. “Of course.”

Éowyn appears to struggle, for a moment. Then, “I hated you, once.”

Arwen sucks in a breath.

“I hate you, at first,” she continues, the words flowing rapidly, one after the other, now. “Aragorn loved—loves you, and while I love Faramir, loved him even then, I could not—I saw you as the person who had denied me, I do not know what, the very thought was foolish, but—”

“But?” Arwen prompts.

“But.” Éowyn stops, fiddling with her fingers, appearing to gather her courage before she goes on. “Now, I find I am attracted to you. That I love you.”

_I love you._ The word rings in her ears. _I love you. I love you. I love you._

“I love you, too,” Arwen finds herself saying, and her hands are shaking as she takes Éowyn's head between them and kisses her. A gentle, chaste kiss, at first, dry lips brushing, but Éowyn pulls her forward, and Arwen's mouth parts, letting Éowyn's tongue in.

It feels good, different from kissing Aragorn (no stubble, for one, and she has to reach down to kiss Éowyn, instead of the somewhat equal height she is used to), but _good,_ sending thrills down her spine.

Soon, Éowyn's lips wander downwards, over her jawline, her collarbones, and Arwen pulls at Eowyn's dress, reaching for any hint of skin. Hands tangle in cloth, peeling it back, layer by layer, as slow kisses are dropped onto skin, and after what feels like an eternity they somehow stumble into the bed in the next room, naked bodies pressed tightly against each other, hands and lips roaming new territory, learning the maps of their bodies.

It is slow, and gentle, and beautiful. After, Arwen lies in Éowyn's arms and thinks she would be content with an eternity of this.

 

 


End file.
